


My cries are washed away upon the wind

by Reality_aborted



Series: if these walls [2]
Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Multi, Shatsome - Freeform, Storms, Urban Magic Yogs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-22
Updated: 2015-11-22
Packaged: 2018-05-02 22:07:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5265428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reality_aborted/pseuds/Reality_aborted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In myth, Kelpies warned of oncoming storms, howling and wailing through the tempest.</p><p>A storm is coming and the garbage court has to deal with a restless Kelpie. UMY</p>
            </blockquote>





	My cries are washed away upon the wind

**Author's Note:**

> When I read about Kelpies and storms I knew I had to write something. Something about a modern Kelpie in a word where people checked weather reports and didn't listen for the howl of river horses.

“Smith. Hold still, please.” Ross pleaded pinning Smith to the arm chair. The cheap wood groaned under their weight and Ross did his best to not lean too heavily on the reclaimed seat. He was straddling Smith, holding his wrists forcefully to the back of the chair. The Kelpie thrashed against him, eyes flashing shades of black and green, focused only on the heavy sky outside, mumbling in a language neither Ross or Sips understood.  
“Any luck Sips?”  
“Not yet.” Sips was pacing up and and down in front of them, phone pressed to his ear listening to Trott’s voicemail message for what felt like the millionth time. Taking his cap off, he threw it unceremoniously onto the sofa in exasperation. “Fucking pick up Trott.” he growled down the phone scrubbing a hand through his sweaty hair.  
The day had been stiflingly hot, close and oppressive, amplified by the damp heat of a city wrapped in a river. The kind of day where it felt like there was no air. Where you found yourself out of breath and tired at the slightest movement. There was no bustle on the streets, only sticky skin and irritated voices, headaches and iced drinks pressed to necks. As the day had progressed Smith’s behaviour had become more and more erratic, starting of as aggravated snapping and deteriorating into isolated mumbling about storms, that was while they could still understand what he was saying.  
Sips tried ringing again, chucking the phone on the sofa when it went straight to voicemail. “Fuck”  
Ross threw a questioning look over his shoulder at Sips.  
“His phones either dead, or he’s turned it off.” He explained watching Smith throw his head from side to side trying to escape Ross, his eyes wide and lips forming strange words.  
“What are we going to do?”  
“I dunno,” Sips sighed, eyes closed, trying to rub away the headache that had been plaguing him all day. “Is he still burning up?”  
“A bit I think.”  
“I’ll get a cold cloth.”  
“Thanks.”

Sips was wringing the cloth out in the sink when he heard the thud of the stubborn front door hitting the the already dented wall, followed but Trott's mumbled curses as he pretty much fell into the apartment.  
He heard Ross call out to Trott, a small amount of relief in his voice.  
Sips wrung the cloth out one more time, so that it didn't drip all over the floor, and left to join them, entering the room at the same time that Trott did.  
“‘bout time Trott, answer your phone sometime, eh?”  
Trott ignored him, dropping his bag on the floor and and walking over to where Ross was still pinning Smith.  
“Smith?” Trott tried to get his attention, brushing the hair that clung to his forehead out of the way. “Look at me Smith.” The normal commanding edge to his voice was laced with concern. Smith turned his head away from Trott, shifting eyes trained on the sky outside the window.  
“What is he saying?” Ross asked quietly as Trott took the damp cloth from Sips and gently pressed it to Smith’s forehead.  
“He’s trying to warn us about a storm.” he muttered, studying Smith’s face, ears straining to hear the words he muttered. Sighing, he looked up at Ross’ confused face “It’s a Kelpie thing. They freak the fuck out whenever a big storm hits. Back in the day they would howl and wail at the sky.”  
“Like a werewolf on a full moon?” Sips asked.  
“Kinda, just more noisy. They would keep on wailing all the way through the storm. These days it usually manifests more like a fever.”  
“Well” Sips huffed. ”If he starts howling at the sky I’m leaving.”  
Trott rolled his eyes and focused his attention back on Smith, deciding to try and speak what little of Smith's native language he knew. It seemed to work and a very dazed Smith returned Trott's gaze, much to everyone's relief.  
“Trott?” Smith sounded like he hadn’t spoken in a month, his brow furrowed in concentration.  
“I’m right here Sunshine, everyone is.” He smiled fondly at the Kelpie.  
“There’s a storm coming”  
“I gathered.”  
“A big one” He looked panicked ”I shouldn’t be here, I should be at the river. People need to know, I can see the wind and the rain, I can see it, a tempest, hail and darkness.” he was trying to wiggle out of Ross’ grasp. Thankfully a solid stone gargoyle is hard to escape from.  
“You don’t need to go. Remember we went through this last time.” Trott tried to sooth him, pressing the cold cloth to his face.  
“It’s all wrong Trott. This form isn’t right. Its wrong, its all wrong, the storm” he was obviously slipping back into a manic state again, and Trott knew he had to do something before he ended up hurting himself.  
“Hold him still Ross”  
Ross nodded and tightened his grasp on Smith, feeling instantly guilty for the bruises he was no doubt going to leave behind.  
Trott placed his hand over Smith’s eyes and the smell of salt water and the ocean filled the room. Trott mustered every scrap of natural magical energy he had and focused it on Smith hoping his River magic wouldn’t fight against his too much. He could feel the conflict of magic surround them; like twin tides fighting and crashing against one another. The sound of rushing water howled in everyone's ears, load and all encompassing. Thankfully this time the force of the ocean won over the flow of the river and Smith began to settle down. Ross noticed that he was no longer fighting against him and had instead sunk into the chair. Eventually, the tide of magic died away and Trott moved away, pretty much collapsing into the sofa. Smith’s eyes were now closed and his chest rose and fell as if asleep.  
“Well shiiit, Trott, what the ever loving fuck was that?” Sips exclaimed.  
“That was, in essence, a magical throw down.” Trott shifted, kicking his shoes off and pushing them under the coffee table with the tips of his toes “You can get off of him now Ross, he should be out for a bit.”  
Ross carefully climbed off Smith, he could see the bruises already forming on Smith’s wrists but was too relieved that he had settled down to be particularly worried about it at the moment.  
“What now?” Sips asked picking up his cap before sitting down next to Trott, one arm slung over the back of the chair.  
Trott yawned and stretched, subconsciously leaning a little closer to Sips. “I have no doubt there will be one hell of a storm starting up soon. If we’re really lucky he’ll sleep through most of it. He probably won’t though, he never has in the past. But, at least he won’t be as spaced as he was just now. He’ll probably just be all dopey and sorry for himself, a bit fidgety maybe.”  
They all watched for a moment as Smith slept.  
“Right, what’s for dinner Ross?” Trott grinned up at the gargoyle, who shook his head with a smirk and walked off into the kitchen.

 

The storm hit a few hours later. The heat had reached tipping point and a loud clap of thunder signalled the start of one of the worst storms the city had seen in years. Rain hammered on the glass windows, that rattled and shook as the wind hit it. It whistled across the the top of old chimneys and raced down narrow alleys. The clatter of bins echoed through the streets, crashing into street lights and house sidings. Windows and doors slammed shut and people raced inside seeking cover, soggy newspapers held above heads, cold water dripping down backs. The yellow glow of living room light leaked out under curtains and into the dark streets. Neon signs blurring and flickering in the heavy downpour as electronics faltered and old TV aerials groaned and waved. 

The garbage court had all huddled on the couch watching an old film on an old VCR. The picture flickered as static took over the screen not for the first time. But the film was more on for the weird comfort it gave to the huddled group. The strange magic that watching something gave, a fixed point of passive distraction. Smith had woke at the loud slam of shutter several doors down. As Trott had predicted he was no longer raving in an old language. Instead, he was uncharacteristically timid, calling out for the others upon realising that he was alone. It didn’t take them long for them all to settle comfortably on the sofa. Smith curling up against Sips, who wrapped an arm around the Kelpie pulling him close muttering words of comfort. Trott had smiled at this upon seeing it. Usually the pair fought and bickered. Trading, albeit affectionate, insults at one another at any given moment. Even when they had sex it was normally rough and passionate but very rarely tender. But, this was one of those few times where you could clearly see that there was true caring between them.  
Trott settled in on the other side of Smith lacing his fingers, placing Smith’s hand in his lap and enclosing it with with other hand.  
Shortly after Ross joined them, handing out hot drinks laced with whisky, that helped fight off the lack of heating in the apartment. They thanked him quietly and Ross started the film. He sat on the floor as usual leaning against their legs, tail curled protectively around Smith’s ankles. They all watched as 1950’s New Orleans came to life in front of them, Vivien Leigh’s soft voice battled against the crash of wind and rain outside their apartment, and they were content. They were safe and together. As Leigh spoke of the kindness of strangers and hail began to hammer on the windows, Smith smiled and closed his eyes, the urge to throw himself into turbulent waters and howl into the storm dying away finally. For the moment he knew where his place was; with the weight on Ross against him, Trott’s hand in his and Sips rubbing circles on his shoulder, breath tickling his forehead. He didn’t need fear the storm any more. The pull of murky water and river weed no longer his top priority. Visions of hail and the nightmare creatures that great storms brought with them washing away from his mind.  
The River could manage without him, for a little while at least.

**Author's Note:**

> This was for some reason really hard to write. Honestly, there was about three or four different versions of this story knocking around in my notebook. I like to think the version I settled on, although one of the shorter ones, was one of the better ones.  
> The film mentioned is the wonderful 'A streetcar named desire' (1951).  
> Title from 'Storm-Racked' by Amy Lowell (1914) It's such a beautiful poem.
> 
> Thank you for reading, I'm on tumblr (same username) say hi if you're around.


End file.
